


If Ever I Would Leave You

by CeslaToil



Series: Fiddleford Appreciation Month [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A Pinch of Angst, Canon Divergence, Crushes, Fluff, Forgiveness, Kissing, Love, M/M, Memories regained, Memory Loss, Pining, Serenading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 07:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10271210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeslaToil/pseuds/CeslaToil
Summary: Old Man McGucket becomes enamored with a mysterious and yet strangely familiar newcomer to Gravity Falls.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based off an old idea I had for a Fiddauthor reunion before the finale aired.  
> The song that the fic is named after is from Camelot, and it is one of the most beautiful love songs in the history of musical theater.

Old Man McGucket had the slightest inkling that what he was about to do was a terrible, stupid, even dotty idea. Regardless, he was going to do it anyway.

It all started about a week ago. Against his better judgment, McGucket had emerged from the bunker one afternoon to check on any survivors after the catastrophe the mysterious laptop had ominously counted down to had driven McGucket into the depths of the secret bunker he only vaguely remembered. After the first wave of fear had passed, McGucket knew that he had to at least try to get as many survivors to safety as possible.

 _When Gravity Falls meets earth and sky, beware the Beast with just one eye._ The phrase had popped into his mind unwarranted when he was trying to sleep one night. Where had he heard it before? It filled him with dread, certainly. He would have to protect his few friends in the town, it was only right!

Besides, he thought, as he reluctantly emerged to the surface, he could use the company.

To his immense relief and slight embarrassment, the world above him was fine—practically unscathed! A few buildings appeared to have been damaged, sure, but otherwise everything remained the same. His son, who chased him away from the lake when he went to check on him, was still the same, scowling man he had always been. The townsfolk were still the same when he passed them on the street, their eyes averting when he waved cheerfully at them as he went by; even the Mystery Shack appeared the same, though the fella who ran it was now currently running into the forest with an armload of treasure.

Shortly after that, the mysterious man showed up.

McGucket’s head tilted at the sight of the man; he could have been Stan’s double, though he was a bit leaner and his hair was a little bit darker. The man was scowling at the retreating form of Stan Pines; he rolled his eyes in irritation before finally catching sight of McGucket standing a few feet away. The old hillbilly felt his face heat up like a boiling kettle at this sudden attention. The word _handsome_ bubbled through his mind, and McGucket’s ears turned pink as the mysterious man squinted at him, as if trying to place a vaguely familiar face. There was something a little familiar about this strange man himself, but McGucket couldn’t quite figure it out. Like a puzzle with too many pieces missing, he only had a small part of the picture and it told him nothing.

Not sure what else to do, McGucket waved amicably while flashing his snaggletooth smile at the other man. The man blinked, but slowly began to smile, and raised his six-fingered hand to wave back at McGucket.

Six fingers.

McGucket took one look at the man’s hand and bolted. He wasn’t even sure why, but a sudden panic took over him, and he ran on all fours back into the woods.

* * *

After this first encounter, McGucket couldn’t quite stop thinking about the mysterious man. Why did he look so familiar? Why did the sight of his hands send him running?

… Was he single, by any chance?

The last question never failed to make the hillbilly blush. He could not remember having a serious crush on anyone before (then again, he couldn’t remember much of anything these days), mostly preferring the company of his machines. Besides that, McGucket was painfully aware that he wasn’t exactly anyone’s ideal suitor; with his skin-and-bones frame, wild, unruly beard and his loud, piercing voice, he looked like a scarecrow that had been brought to life by a sadistic genie. This didn’t even account for all of McGucket’s anxieties, or the fact he still had trouble remembering who he was. The idea that he would end up scaring off this alluring newcomer was a distinct and probable possibility.

But, nonetheless, McGucket kept valiantly trying and inevitably failing to work up the nerve to talk to the stranger. McGucket figured it would be easier if he at least brought a gift with him, in case he got too tongue tied to say anything.

On Wednesday, he had slipped into one of the tour groups for the Mystery Shack; once he had caught sight of the stranger, he made a beeline for him, squawked out a quick “hello,” shoved a jug full of home-brewed bourbon into his arms and ran away like a spooked horse.

Thursday, he had picked a bouquet of sunflowers from a nearby field. He marched right up to the door, ready to hand his gift to the mysterious man, but when Stan answered instead, he completely panicked and ended up walloping Stan across the face with the bouquet. He ran away to the sound of Stan Pines cursing at the top of his lungs.

Friday, he had scrounged up enough money to go to Greasy’s Diner and asked Lazy Susan to bake a pie in the shape of a heart, a task she giddily went about doing, humming and singing off-key like a tone-deaf princess in a fairy tale as she baked. (The other diners did not appreciate this). An hour later, she handed McGucket a large, heart shaped strawberry pie with a latticed crust, still warm from the oven. It took every little bit of willpower McGucket had not to stuff the whole thing into his mouth as he rushed towards the Shack to deliver his gift.

This time, rather than try to talk to anybody, McGucket simply knocked on the door and left the pie on the welcome mat before he ran off into the woods. From behind a tree he watched nervously as the door creaked open; there stood the mysterious man again. He looked down, picked up the pie, and smiled to himself before calling “Thank you,” into the general direction of the woods. McGucket buried his face in his beard and didn’t move from out under the tree for quite some time.

This brings us to Saturday Night.

It was a last ditch effort, and definitely not one he thought would work, but late into the moonlit evening, McGucket brought his banjo and a bottle labeled “Baritone” along with him to the Mystery Shack once more. Carefully, he opened the bottle, took a swig of the honey-flavored elixir, and began to play a few chords on the banjo to warm up. There was a song he had heard during a play that had performed at the local theater, a pretty little tune a knight sang to his love, and McGucket figured it was as nice as any song.

Nervously, he sang out in his potion-altered voice, and it rang melodiously through the night.

It is the most curious thing, listening to a song. Two people could listen to the same lyrics, the same melody, and each would still have different feelings towards that piece of music. A person having a fine, happy day where they were going to a party with all their friends would probably dislike hearing a sad, slow song, and would want to hear something cheerful instead, but someone having a terrible day where they lost their job and then afterwards dumped by their boyfriend over the phone would love hearing something just as morose as they felt, and would hate to hear something falsely cheerful.

At that moment, two different people were listening to McGucket’s pretty song, and both had vastly different opinions on it. The mysterious man, who you and I both know was actually Ford Pines, heard the sweet lyrics describing hair streaked with sunlight and a face with a luster that put gold to shame, and found it odd, but strangely charming, as he had found all the gifts from his mysterious admirer.

Stan, however, had extremely little patience for the sounds of Lerner and Loewe played on the banjo at one in the _freaking_ morning. With his shotgun firmly in hand, Stan walked out onto the porch, took one look at the serenading hillbilly outside, and fired three warning shots into the air, a loud curse escaping his lips with each pump of the gun.

McGucket shrieked in the artificial timbre of his borrowed voice as he scrambled raccoon-like away from the still screaming Stan. In the frenzy of trying to escape, McGucket barreled head-first into the pile of trashcans waiting at the side of the house. A violent _clang_ of tin-on-tin blared like cymbals, the trashy percussion was ringing through McGucket’s ears as he fell face first onto the ground.

Over the echo of the trash cans, McGucket heard two people arguing.

“What in the hell did you do that for?”

“It’s just the town loon being a nuisance, brainiac, I was just trying to drive him off.”

“You could have killed somebody!”

“What, I didn’t aim for him… yet.”

“Oh, just go back in the house, you knucklehead!”

“Suit yourself, dork.”

Wearily, McGucket got back up despite the trembling protest of his own knobby legs. Stan was right, he was just being a pain. What was he thinking, trying to sing a love song to a man he didn’t know in the middle of the night? It was dopey even by his standards.

McGucket had just resolved to move back into the dark depths of the bunker for good when he heard a small cough directly behind him. He turned around and made a rabbit-like leap into the air when he found the mysterious man standing right there!

“Hello,” said the man in a friendly tone, “I heard you singing.”

Silence. Utter, mortified silence was all McGucket could manage.

“It sounded nice,” the man continued, “I never was one to care too much for show tunes, but that was honestly a great performance.”

Was he being serious? He couldn’t be serious.

“Y’mean I didn’t wake you or nothin’?” There was an apologetic tone to McGucket’s voice; every passing second made him more aware of how bad this plan had been.

“Not at all,” the man assured him, “I was up writing regardless.”

“Oh! Well, that—that’s good,” said McGucket, slightly relieved he hadn’t disturbed the man’s slumber at the very least. “I didn’t wanna bother you or your family, I just wanted—well, I ain’t sure what I wanted to be honest.”

He took his hat off his head and began to nervously crumple it in his hands.

“Where did you learn to sing like that,” the man asked with a kindly smile.

“I made a voice-altering potion that can make you sound however you want, and I picked the batch labeled ‘baritone,’” said McGucket quickly, lifting the empty potion bottle from his pocket as he spoke. This made the other man laugh, a lovely sound, thought McGucket, who was feeling quite warm and giddy once again.

“You’ve quite the wit,” said the man, who might have thought McGucket was joking.

“T-thank you!”

“That pie was delicious, by the way—did you bake it,” said the man, who began to move closer towards McGucket as he spoke.

“Nah, I cain’t cook worth a darn,” admitted McGucket, “I got the diner lady to make it.”

“Well, regardless it was wonderful,” said the man, placing one of his hands on McGucket’s shoulder gently. The very touch made the tips of McGucket’s ears shine beet-red.

“I try not to eat too much sugar these days now that I’m older,” the man continued, “but then again, I don’t think I’ve ever had an admirer who’d bake heart-shaped anything for me before, much less a pie, so I made an exception.”

“Oh, horsewallop,” said McGucket, who now resembled a radish from how much he was flushing, “I bet you’ve had plenty of admirers, you’re—”

Charming? Handsome? Interesting? Clever? McGucket couldn’t get the right word out, so he said nothing instead.

“Ha,” the man chuckled, “I assure you, I haven’t. I don’t think I’ve ever had an admirer period! Not unless you count the Hand Witch, or this one pompous, twenty-something bore who’s way too invested in my personal life for my taste.”

“You… you mean you don’t mind that I’m all rickety and gross,” said McGucket, looking down to his bandaged feet momentarily. “I know I ain’t exactly Lancelot. I ain’t even the guy carrying Lancelot’s piss-pot, to be honest.”

“Hey, we’re old, being gross comes with the territory,” said the man reassuringly. “Besides, you seem kind, and honestly rather charming in your own unique way. You… you sort of remind me of a friend I once had.”

McGucket felt like singing all over again. He couldn’t believe it! The mysterious man called him _charming!_

Taking in a deep, calming breath, McGucket hurriedly asked, “Would you like to go out sometime?”

The man took McGucket’s face into his large hands, cupping his cheeks gently as he tilted McGucket’s head upwards to look him in the eyes. _He’s so close I could kiss him_ , thought McGucket, his heart in rapid staccato as the man gazed intensely into his eyes. The man carefully scrutinized McGucket’s face, as if looking for something that wasn’t supposed to be there, but soon, the man relaxed, smiling at McGucket as warmly as a summer sunbeam.

“I think I’d like that,” said the man softly. “Pardon me if this sounds too forward… but you have the most beautiful blue eyes.”

McGucket beamed up at the man, hardly believing what he’d just heard. As far as he could remember, no one had ever called anything about him beautiful!

What a wonderful night.

“You have got to be kidding me!”

Stan’s voice sliced the mood like a sword, cleaving it in two. The mysterious man scowled, then snapped around to Stan, who was jeering at the couple from the porch.

“I thought you were going back to bed, _Stanley_ ,” snapped Ford, spitting out his brother’s name like an insult.

“I was, _Stanford_ ,” said Stan, with about as much biting contempt, “ but it’s not every day you see your snooty, pretentious brother putting the moves on Old Man McGucket. What, are you going to move into his little hut in the dump and be weirdos together or something?”

“Wait, what did you just say,” said Stanford, his tone suddenly changing into one of surprise and concern. “Did… did you just call him _McGucket?_ ”

“Did he just call you _Stanford_ ,” said McGucket quietly. The name kept repeating itself over and over in his brain, and soon, memories began to flood as if a dam had broken in his mind. Stanford, who was his roommate and friend in college, Stanford, the best man at his wedding with his first wife, Stanford, who had rescued him from some terrible beast, Stanford, who he countlessly argued with about the memory gun and the portal, to no avail because he was just so damned stubborn, Stanford, who pulled him out of the portal but still refused to shut it down. Stanford, the man he missed, the man he feared, the man he resented, the man he mourned, the man he may have even started to love.

 He had found a friend he had thought long lost.

 “Fiddleford!”

The name blinked McGucket back into the present, he must have dazed off, because Stanford looked as if he was on the verge of tears as he spoke to him.

“Fiddleford, oh my god, you must hate me, I don’t blame you in the slightest if you do,” said Stanford, taking both of McGucket’s hands into his, “I’m so sorry—so endlessly sorry. I should have listened to you, should have been listening to you the whole time, I can’t imagine that you would ever forgive—”

Without warning, McGucket clapped his hands around Ford Pines face and kissed him softly on the lips for the first time in decades. There was a faint hint of sweet strawberry pie clinging to Stanford’s lips, mingled with the taste of salt from their shared tears.

He was home. At long last, he was home again.


End file.
